


Concerto No. 3 in D Minor

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fuckbuddies, Missed Opportunities, Past Relationship(s), on stage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13204251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: You turned down Rick's request to join his band, and he left. He shows up again, though, when you least expect it.





	Concerto No. 3 in D Minor

**Author's Note:**

> For anon request: _If you’re open on requests, a rick/reader where rick is still in the flesh curtains and the reader is in a band of her/his own. Rick is fascinated by the reader and starts making moves on them._
> 
> I took a little liberty with the timeframe, setting it in the future.
> 
> (p.s.: I am open to requests! Find info to contact me and read my prompt rules on my profile page.)

You massage your fingers before going out on stage. Nervous habit. You like to think it keeps them limber, but mostly it’s because you can’t _not_ be doing something with your hands.

From deep in the wings where you stand, you can’t see the audience and their sounds they make are a dull chittering, like insects at night. You’re approached by a stage hand who nods and gives you a thumbs’ up. You smile back, knowing that you have a minute to get on stage.

With a deep breath and final twist to each of your fingers—keeps them loose!—you walk out. The sound of your shoes is lost in the murmuring of the crowd, at first, then all their noise collapses on itself as the spotlight finds you.

Your soles click once, twice, on the wooden stage, then the clapping from the audience drowns it out again.

Pausing before getting to your mark, you bow slightly to your fans. Their noise intensifies and you smile, then continue.

The bench is already positioned as you request it. Gathering your skirt around you so you can sit properly, you take your place at the keyboard of the grand piano. Its lid is raised to concert height and it is polished to a mirrored sheen.

You give the audience a moment to quiet down again. You catch the conductor’s eye and he raises his baton, then the orchestra seated fanned around you begins, and you launch into the concerto.

Your fingers fly and pull emotion from the music written so long ago. You’re known for not only being technically skilled, but also for your expression and natural instincts to bring the classics to a different life. You love the passion, the dialogue the composer created between the keys and the player, and you strive to make every performance inspiring as a tribute to them.

At the end of the concert—forty five minutes, which may seem like a short time for someone not familiar with the demanding nature of Rachmaninoff—as the last notes echo through the hall, the audience is already applauding. They’re already on their feet, calling your praises and requesting an encore. You’re sweaty, but grinning and exhilarated, and stand up to take your bow.

As you do, a sharp, startling whistle cuts through the air.

The sound is so piercing and out of place at a piano concerto there’s a faltering of applause. It picks back up again, though, as you gesture to the orchestra for their share of the recognition.

The stage lights are too bright for you to see into the audience; they’re just a mass of undulating black. But you don’t need to see him to know that he’s there.

Rick Sanchez would be the only one to whistle in appreciation in a concert hall.

You mouth, “thank you,” to the audience, blow them some kisses, and head off stage.

In the wings people congratulate you and praise your performance. You accept their admiration graciously, all the while thinking about him.

Later, after politely declining offers of dinner and drinks, you are alone in the hall. It’s cavernous and dark, but you requested one light on the piano. The lid is closed, now, to prevent dust getting on the strings. 

For practice, you said. To get my head back after that piece.

You’re not denied. 

Alone, you wonder if it was him. Maybe it was some other boorish patron who got carried away and whistled his approval. Maybe you’re waiting for a hope, a ghost, a nothing—

Footsteps echo across the stage. Yours had been light and clicking; these are heavy and deep, made by steel toed boots with thick soles and laces to mid-calf.

“Rick . . .” you breathe out, and turn to face him.

It’s been you don’t know how long since you’ve seen him. He looks mostly the same: blue hair partially slicked back against its natural spikes, his frame lean to just this side of being unhealthy. He’s got stubble and thick black eyeliner has been stabbed on under each lower lid. His clothing is well-conditioned leather and chains that wannabes strive to emulate; his comes as just natural punk.

He’s smoking a cigarette but removes it and pinches out the lit end with his fingers before slipping the unused portion into a pocket.

“I know you don’t like ash on the stage,” he says, by way of greeting.

You snort, a response that would give most of your fans a heart attack if they heard it. It was so improper.

“How’d you get in?” you ask. “I know they locked the doors.”

“Like I’ve never broken into a concert hall before,” he retorts. “Baby, I’ve broken into _vaults._ Security measures here are shit.”

Rick closes the distance between you as he brags and takes your hands. Lifting them so he can examine them more closely, he says, 

“You played perfectly, as always.”

Before you can thank him, he readjusts his grip and kisses your fingers. Each one gets individual attention—sucking, licking, soft bites along the meat. Sometimes he closes his eyes as he caresses them with his mouth; other times he locks his gaze on yours.

You can’t do anything but let him continue. You realize he’s no longer got the tongue piercing he’d sported previously, and that’s a little disappointing. 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight,” you tell him, for want of something to say.

With his chin dropped, he looks up at you from under his brow while he sucks your index finger. 

“Didn’t wanna ruin the surprise, baby,” he smirks back. “Didja miss me? I haven’t seen you at any of my gigs lately.”

You haven’t been to a Flesh Curtains gig in years. 

“You haven’t been around either,” you counter. “Jumping from bar to bar, going wherever the wind blows you. You must be playing down in the Strip, or did you really want me to believe you made a special trip back just to see me?”

He smirks again. “Nope. You’re right—got a gig at Rosebud. Just saw your name on the marquee and . . . persuaded some old dude to give up his seat. His old lady didn’t wanna sit next to me either, so it was a BOGO situation.”

You snort again, less amused this time. You can only imagine him sitting in a crowd that wears sequined cocktail dresses, floor-length gowns, and tuxedoes. He was going to be the center of lots of people’s discussions later.

Rick stops caressing your fingers and steps up tight and close. You’re pinned between him and the piano.

“If I’d told you I was coming would you have baked a cake?” he asks. “Or would you’ve had a better treat for me . . . like no panties under this skirt?”

His fingers explore the thin material near your ass and find the elastic of your underwear.

“Shame,” he admonishes lightly. “The thought of you up here, playing that ridiculous Rachmaninoff shit with just your skirt on but your pussy free would’ve been something. You’re seated on the bench but I watch your thighs—they open and close while you’re using the pedals. If your skirt was shorter, you’d have a breeze on your pussy—that’d bring some expression to a piece, wouldn’t it? I go commando when I’m on stage. Would you’ve done it for me, if I’d asked?”

He’s an asshole, but you can’t help yourself.

“Yes,” you answer, dragging out the sibilant.

“Good girl,” he praises, and kisses you.

He tastes like cigarettes and the cheap alcohol he favors and a life you’ll never have. You cling to him, desperate for what he represents. Desperate for a taste of what you declined a lifetime ago.

He pulls back and laughs at your neediness. 

“So how do you wanna do this? Go back to your place, or I got a room—“

“Fuck me here. On this piano,” you blurt out.

Typically Rick is not at a loss for words, but this gives him pause as he processes it. A slow smile creeps across his face. 

“Fuck you. On this piano,” he repeats, and looks down it in appraisal. “This is a nine foot two inch Steinway Model D concert grand. This is a sixty-five thousand dollar instrument. And you want me to fuck you on it?”

“Never mind the price tag. It’s sturdy,” you justify.

He takes a minute to make you sweat, then laughs—a full, open laugh that acoustically sounds good on this stage. He sounds better here than any dive bar he’s ever played in.

“You always were a kinky one,” he tells you. “Let’s find out just how sturdy it is.”

He scoops you up and sets you on the lid, raising you just above him. Your dress is one piece, and you hold him close and kiss him while he fumbles with the tiny zipper under your arm. Once it’s undone, you shrug out of it so your chest is exposed. Your chest is small enough that you don’t have to wear a bra, and in this one specific instance, you don’t lament having small tits. Rick backs away for a moment to shove your skirt up and expose the tops of your thighs, and you shift your weight to help facilitate getting those panties he mentioned off. He flings them somewhere onto the stage, out of the light.

One of Rick’s hands, calloused at the finger tips from the strings of his bass, drag from your collarbone, through the wide valley of your breasts, passed the bunched clothing at your waist, and down all the way from your hip to your heel.

Even mostly nude it was getting warm in here.

“Scoot closer,” he says, and helps pull you closer to the edge of the lid. 

You teeter a bit, trying to balance.

Rick kisses you again and you use his shoulders for balance. As he left off and started down your body with his mouth, he shook off your grip, forcing you to reach behind and support yourself so you don’t fall. It made you lean back, exposing more of you to him.

He glanced up as he took first one, then then other nipple in his mouth. Even under the hot white of the light his eyes were dark. He used his teeth a little sharply to make you gasp, and smiled when you did, with your tit in his mouth.

After that impish smile, he kissed his way as far as he could down your stomach, until he was impeded by your wrinkled dress. He skipped moving it aside and dipped his head to nip at your hip. You laugh and start to readjust your hands to give him a playful slap. Your sound and movement was cut off was he lowered his mouth to your pussy.

His tongue slipped up, deep and purposeful, against you. You gasp. Your arms seem to automatically give out, dropping you to your elbows, and Rick nudges your thighs wider, splaying you out before him. He keeps his mouth on you even as you shift, and more gasps and moans escape you.

He could tease—oh, how you knew he could tease!—but tonight he was direct and didn’t waste time with gentle caresses and tender nuzzling. He found your clit and tongued it, pushing you quickly, quickly, higher— _almost—_

You give up trying to support yourself on your elbows and drop back to lie prone on the piano. One hand mindlessly reaches out to find the side of his head, your fingers grasping as best they could in his hair, anything to continue the pleasure, anything at all—

Rick stops.

He didn’t move away much, and it takes a second for your body to realize he left off. A disappointed groan leaves your throat and you lift your head to find out what happened and why.

Rick grins up at you and at the expression on your face. 

“Rick,“ you beg, “—please, _please—“_

At your desperate plea he drops his head again and sucks hard at your clit, humming as he did.

The combination of vibration and pressure makes you cry out and buck; you’d have snapped your legs shut to continue the pleasure but his shoulders prevent them from closing. 

Before his breath gives out and his humming stops, you climax.

You coast along on the feeling for several moments. Your legs begin hurting from the strain of not having them supported more quickly than you would like, and although you don’t want to, you have to make the decision of scooting further away from him onto the piano lid or sliding off the instrument completely.

You push yourself back.

Rick seemed to understand your problem. He wiped his chin and looked over you, the faint sheen of sweat on your exposed skin shining in the overhead light. 

“Well, baby,” he started to say, then had to clear his throat. His voice was so deep it stuck. “You wanna fuck on this piano, but as sturdy as this beast may be, I’m worried about both of us on it. And I think physically it may be difficult . . .”

You weren’t just further away; you were seated too high, you realize.

He pauses and considers something. Finally he decides, “ . . . come here.”

You were disappointed. When the spontaneous idea of screwing on this piano bloomed, you hadn’t actually considered the logistics of it. It never occurred to you that you’d be perched too high above him on the lid. And he was right, the weight of both of you might not work, so it was good he had a scientific facet in his head—

“Come here,” he repeats. 

With a sigh, you sit up and ease yourself towards the edge again. Once more you teeter a bit and readjust your balance before getting ready to slip to the floor, but Rick stops you by stepping in between your legs again.

His fingers work the buckle of his belt and the fly of his pants. The black fingernail polish he wears is stark under the white light.

You’re confused, and watch without helping.

His pants drop to his ankles. He doesn’t remove his ripped shirt or vest, only hikes it up a bit. When he finally looks back up to you, you see his eyes are still dark with lust.

“Well?” he asks.

His cock is stiff, and even though pre-come had been wicked away by it being trapped behind fabric, more begins beading at the tip again.

You still can’t understand what he means to do.

In your confusion, Rick takes your waist and makes to pick you up.

“Rick!” you laugh. “What are you—you can’t just hold me up—“

“I certainly fucking can,” he retorts. “I don’t trust both of us clambering on top of this thing, but I’m more than capable of fucking you _against_ it.”

You get a flash of his solution to the problem.

“But . . . I’m too heavy. The piano will move!”

“No you’re not. And this piano has wheel locks and it’s too heavy for me to push it, no matter how much that insults my masculinity.”

You still hesitate.

Rick cocks his head slightly, and raised his brow. “You’re choice, baby,” he teases. “Fuck me here on this stage, like you asked, or I’m walking away . . .”

He hadn’t lost his erection, even with the discussion, but you know him well enough that he would carry through on his threat.

You lick your lips and take his face in your hands to kiss him. His tongue touches yours, and there really was only one decision. You break off the kiss to maneuver enough that he widens his stance to anticipate you, then give him time to grip you under your thighs and ass as you wrap your legs around his waist and allow him to take your full weight.

The position was a tad awkward at first—you have to adjust your bunched up dress so its not between the two of you and make it offer some padding against the lip of the lid—but when everything was aligned and you wrap your arms around his neck and he slides into you, it is bliss.

Rick can’t move much—pants gathered around his ankles were a hindrance—but that’s okay; the overwhelming heat and pressure override such a small annoyance. Even without rhythmic thrusting, you moan with each breath and intersperse the wordless noise with a gaspy, “Rick—!” every so often.

It was good, so good, the scandalous nature of fucking on stage, on a piano worth more than anything you’d ever personally own, with a man who flitted in and out randomly through your life, who once wanted you to stop wasting your time on dead music as he called it and join him in his band, to travel and be with him and snort K-lax and fuck endlessly—

Once again, so close to another orgasm, Rick stops. 

“Lean back,” he orders, through his own reflexive moans.

You pull your head away from his neck to look at him, and squeeze him internally. Rick gasps at the sensation and has to close his eyes a second before being able to focus on you again. 

“I told you I’m too heavy—“ you fret.

“You’re not too heavy!” he interrupts. “I’m not putting you down, I just want you to lean back on the piano. Trust me?”

You kiss him again and you can almost see the thin thread of control he’d manged to regain fraying. But before he was to the point of no return, you oblige and carefully unlock one arm from around his neck before using it to prop yourself back on the piano lid. The second arm was quicker. 

You new position—legs still wrapped tightly around his thin waist, holding yourself by your elbows on the piano, your torso slightly higher than his and just a touch arched—sends shockwaves of ecstasy through you. And him too, from the staggered expression on his face. He readjusts his hands from your thighs and ass to your waist, and you gasp. Your tits bounce with each breath.

Rick can’t control the urge to thrust. It wasn’t much, it couldn’t be much, but it was divine. The minimal hip movements he could still make rocked you and you felt he drove deeper into you than ever before. You wish you could watch the two of you from an angle above—tits bobbing, flushed and sweaty skin, that delicious sight of his cock and your pussy joined—but as stronger and stronger waves of pleasure rushed through you, you have to close your eyes and grasp at him as you drown in euphoria.

Rick hears you gasp and feels you stiffen, and he can’t hold back any longer either; he comes deep inside you, groaning at the release. 

His climax was protracted and it takes a bit to catch his breath. You give him his time, not complaining about the tight grip he has on you or the unforgiving edge of the piano’s lid across your back.

When he’s finally able to open his eyes again, you’re smiling. Through his panting, he smiles back. 

“Thanks,” you tell him.

“Are you done?” he replies.

You’re startled by the question. Rick wasn’t rude about it; his query was flavored with genuine curiosity.

You narrowed your eyes. “And if I say that I’m not, will that make me sound like a slut?”

“You were always a slut for me, baby,” he says, in praise. “And I’m not complaining about that. So. You decide.”

He was still hard inside you, and it still felt good. You’re still aroused, and if he was willing to continue—

Rick could see you were debating it.

“What do you want me to do?” he urged quietly. “This is what you asked for, here on his piano. I want to see you come again. I’ll use my hands, I’ll use my mouth. I can still fuck you, if you want, for a bit . . .”

His deep tone and suggestions make you shiver, and you make up your mind. 

Shifting your weight to one arm, you drop the other to your pussy. Rick corrects his stance to help continue to support you as you finger yourself. The sight and feel of you pleasuring yourself while he’s still buried in you sends a quivery spike of ecstasy into his core. 

“S-step closer,” you ask.

Your stutter announces the bliss coursing through you again. Rick drags his eyes away from your pussy and looks up your body. You have your eyes closed, arching your back to facilitate more pressure on your clit. You moan differently than when he pleasures you; you gasp quietly and seem more focused. That intrigues him. He would have to insist on you masturbating for him again sometime—

Rick complies with your request and takes a half step closer. Your hips rock sharply against him, and the new angle traps your hand between your pubic bones. Your fingers stop moving as the feeling of pressure on your clit and his cock still hard inside you makes another orgasm rush upward.

You gasp and cry out and every muscle tenses. Rick moans and whispers, “yes . . .” at the sight and feel of you succumbing to pleasure again. 

You relax in stages, and finally, he carefully helps you off the piano. You both gasp as his cock slips out of you, and you put a hand between your legs for a moment.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you tell him with a shaky grin. “Just a bit sore.”

You let go of yourself to prove you’re fine, and kiss him.

“Thank you,” you say. Then, with pauses, you confess, “I’ve never done that, with a man. Still inside me.”

Rick nodded. “Neither have I.”

You glance up at him. “Fuck you,” you laugh.

He laughs too, with a retort of, “No, you fuck me!” and you make him kiss you again.

After a few moments he pulls up his pants properly and straightens the rest of his clothing. You twist your dress back into its proper alignment and to grab the quilted cover for the piano. Rick helps you cover the instrument.

“See? Told you we wouldn’t move this thing,” he says, and you agree.

“You’re right. Although—“

You bend down and examine the floor.

“There’s a little wet spot here!” you exclaim, indicating the area you two stood.

Rick shrugs. “You’re prob’ly not too comfortable either, with it running down your legs. Use your dress to wipe it up.”

_“What?”_

He ignores your indignation. “You’ve already got a huge wet mark on your skirt What’s a little more?”

“On my _skirt?_ What?”

You pull up and rotate the material to find what he’s talking about. You don’t pay any mind to the fact you’re flashing him as you do it, and groan dramatically was you notice the wet discoloring the fabric.

“What am I going to do?” you ask in rhetorical horror. “I can’t go out like this!”

Rick laughs. The look you give him is exasperated, but he could only shrug.

“I’d offer you my vest like a proper gentleman, but, well . . .” He trailed off as he demonstrated how little his own vest, cut to the waist, would cover you. He couldn’t seem to stop chuckling.

You groan again and give up. You swipe at the spot on the floor with the hem of your skirt, muttering half under your breath that you just might send him the dry cleaning bill, then stand back up with as much dignity as you can muster.

Rick catches you. 

“No one is going to notice,” he reassures you. “It’s late, it’s dark—we’ll catch a cab. You wanna head to my motel? Or show me where you’re living, nowadays? We might get another gig here, if Squanchy doesn’t fuck up again and piss off the club owner, and I can always pay you another visit . . .”

You smile and nod. You both know you won’t see him again for years—if ever—but it’s nice to pretend.

It isn't until much later, wrapped up as the small spoon in his lanky frame, that you realize you've left your panties somewhere on that stage.

_fin._


End file.
